


Seeking Your Expert Opinion

by RoseHarperMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Herbology Professor Neville Longbottom, Light Dom/sub, POV Neville Longbottom, Pining, Praise Kink, Rare Pairings, Restraints, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Unspeakable Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26404492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell/pseuds/RoseHarperMaxwell
Summary: Five times Hermione needs Neville's professional advice, and one time she doesn't.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Neville Longbottom
Comments: 41
Kudos: 183
Collections: Best of NevMione, Fuck Your Gender Roles





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, M! I hope your day is wonderful.
> 
> I've just been a Nevmione voyeur, but for you, my first rare pair. 
> 
> No timeline, but these two deserve a smutty epilogue, and so do you. 💚
> 
> Thanks so much for your help, [ persephone_stone! ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone) And a big thank you to [ dreamsofdramione ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione)for the beautiful graphic!

It's always been Hermione for Neville. 

Not that there hasn’t been interest from others, thankfully. He is aware he has, as Gran puts it, “Grown up quite nicely.” He certainly feels a bit more confident than he did in his awkward teenage years. There’s been a fair amount of pleasant attention, some polite dates and less-polite tumbles. He hasn’t denied himself the opportunity to get to know other witches.

But nothing’s been serious. No one has come close to even the idea of her.

Neville’s life is good, though. As he closes the last greenhouse for the day, he decides he’d describe it as comfortable.

Teaching Herbology at Hogwarts might be a cliché, but Neville knows of no career that would be more satisfying. Growing up and replacing his favorite professor in his favorite subject is all he ever wanted to do. It’s an immense privilege to impart a healthy, practical knowledge of plants to young minds. He’s able to spend his days working his hands deep into fragrant, loamy soil, and can take summers off to travel and research. 

It’s nice to be good at what he does and well-respected in his field. He’s even made a few important discoveries. Neville won’t allow anything to be named after himself, but Frank, Alice and Augusta all have rooted namesakes in deep rainforests and arid plains. Tiny, rare legacies he’s shared with the world in their honor.

He showers, scrubbing away the evidence of preparations for a new school year. Even with magic, some things are best done by hand, and Neville always aches a bit more before the students are back to help. But it’s a satisfying sort of soreness, and the tangible results of his efforts are worth it.

Professionally, things couldn't be better.

His life is rich with friendship as well. It helps that his core group has never gone far. Neville knows no one outside their childhood will ever understand what it was like. It makes them more like family, really. He likes knowing that Harry has less-frequent nightmares because of the herbs he grows for the potions that Malfoy brews, which are safety-tested by Padma at St. Mungo's. And there’s a reassuring sense of belonging on nights like tonight, when Hannah has his favorite ale poured as soon as she sees him walking into the Leaky, and Seamus has saved him a seat. 

Their lives all fit neatly together, and it's a comfort to know they still look out for one another.

His eyes find Hermione immediately in the crowded pub, even with her distinctive hair pulled up. Neville is always aware of her presence, the way a heliotropic bloom tracks the sun. She’s deep in conversation with Penelope Clearwater, one of her colleagues in the Department of Mysteries.

The specifics of Hermione’s work are not clear to Neville, but he knows Unspeakables are brilliant and have unsurpassed autonomy in the Ministry. He likes to imagine her days are filled with a relentless pursuit of knowledge and intense research—like the countless hours she spent in the library at Hogwarts, only surrounded by more kindred spirits. She can be fiercely stubborn and determined, but her kind heart and compassionate nature soften her sharp edges in a way that makes her seem perfectly balanced to Neville. 

He knows he’s not alone in his admiration. Anytime she's ever been single, someone else has boldly, swiftly stepped in before Neville. Even now, sitting at a table two seats away from her, he’s aware that it’s only a matter of time before someone offers Hermione everything she deserves. That thought inspires a tendril of panic, choking his resolve like Devil’s Snare, stifling any consideration of a spontaneous expression of interest. 

While he may have some quiet confidence, approaching Hermione feels like a massive undertaking he has to get right. It’s not the Yule Ball, and he knows enough now to make sure she’s unattached before another attempt. But he needs time to plant a seed, and nurture it, and watch it mature and flourish. Neville tends plants with thoughtful care and coaxes out their beauty. With a plan, he knows how to make something thrive under his attention. 

He doesn't know how to slam a beer down on the table, drag Hermione to her feet and say, "You look like you need a good shag." 

Theo Nott knows how to do that, apparently. He’s twirling her around the floor now, and Neville can hear her laughter like it’s the sole sound in the pub.

Only Malfoy seems to have noticed Neville’s preoccupation, for which he's grateful. It’s never been easy to wear his heart on his sleeve. There was a time when Malfoy would have been the last person he'd trust with the knowledge, but they're friends now. His social group is not only secure, it’s expanded since school, as old grudges faded and new leaves turned over. Now Malfoy is probably the only bloke at the table Neville knows will keep his mouth shut. He still denies his feelings, but it's half-hearted at best. 

"Theo's gay, you tit." Malfoy elbows him. "You know that. He's practically married to Potter. You needn't look like he kicked your crup and stole your girl." 

"Shhh." Neville looks around, feeling his cheeks flush. "I don't know what you're talking about. She's not 'my girl.' Even if we were together, she's her own witch. She would never _belong_ to me."

Malfoy sips his firewhisky and points at Neville. "Yes! Open with that. Granger will eat that up." He watches Neville slowly turn his pint in a circle on the tabletop, eyeing him disdainfully. "Go cut in, Gryffindor. You're making me sad."

Neville rubs the back of his neck. "I wouldn’t just cut in. Anyway, I'm not...I'm just going to call it a night."

Malfoy shakes his head, clearly disappointed in Neville's continued lack of gumption. Neville makes his goodbyes and Apparates to Hogsmeade for a nice, head-clearing walk back to the castle. The absence of students means no chatter or doling out punishments, and it feels like a small mercy. 

He knows Malfoy is right. Neville's been transfixed by Hermione since she went out of her way to help him look for Trevor ten years ago. He's spent the last decade—almost half of his life—admiring her intelligence and passion, imagining what it would be like to be the object of her affection. No one else has ever turned his head in remotely the same way.

Last he heard—and he _pays attention_ when the topic comes up—she broke up with Oliver Wood. It's probably been a decent-enough amount of time since then. He promises himself he’ll give it a shot. 

He's going to do it this time.

As soon as he has a plan.

* * *

Before Neville can formulate said plan, Hermione strolls into greenhouse six on Monday. He’s so surprised, he almost suffers a bite from a fanged geranium.

“Hello, Neville,” she says. “Hope I’m not bothering you. I was wondering if you might have plant recommendations for Molly’s birthday. Her garden is overflowing already, but she has such a green thumb. What would you give to someone who has everything?”

Neville collects his wits and describes several varieties of orchids Molly might like. “If you’re looking for a houseplant, that is. It’s possible to charm them continually for garden survival, but it’d be a lot of work.”

Hermione decides an orchid would look lovely behind Molly’s kitchen sink. Thanking him for his help, she takes his recommendation for a specialty nursery and hurries off. She’s gone before Neville realizes he’s missed an opportunity. 

* * *

She’s back on Tuesday, and he’s just as startled as he was the day before. 

Now she wants Neville’s opinion on must-have plants for a home herb garden. “I don’t cook much,” she says. “And I don’t have a lot of space. But I think I’d cook more if I had fresh herbs. What do you think is absolutely essential?”

He’s really getting into the benefits of rosemary, culinary _and_ medicinal, when she looks at her watch and says, “Oh, sugar! I’m going to be late. Thank you, Neville!”

_Sugar._ Merlin. He wants to kiss her precious mouth.

Neville skips dinner for a cold shower. He bakes some rosemary shortbread biscuits for Hermione. Then he sets aside the rest of his evening to make a plan. The biscuits could be helpful; there might be an opening there, if he just focuses hard enough on it. 

Instead, he gets lost in detailed thoughts about which greenhouse would be most conducive to spreading Hermione out, instructing her to be quiet while he teases her in the precise ways she likes until she begs to come. 

Then he takes another shower, but this one’s warm and he has a semi-satisfying wank. After, he feels slightly guilty for objectifying his oldest friend. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s starred in his fantasies, but she was actually there today asking for his help and now he’s turned it into something filthy. He rationalizes that he’s interested in far more than sexual gratification. He also daydreamed that she was baking biscuits with him in the kitchen, fully clothed and oblivious to a sweet smudge of flour on her adorable nose. 

_Not six,_ he thinks as he drifts off to sleep. _Too dangerous. Greenhouse four would be safer._

* * *

On Wednesday, Hermione finds it critical to hear his thoughts on must-have plants for first-aid purposes. “I’m positive we’re woefully underprepared in the Department of Mysteries. ‘Top ten most useful, wouldn’t be caught without them’ suggestions? I want to make sure we’re not missing anything.” She taps her lower lip thoughtfully. Neville wants to bite it. “I might want to compare notes on the best artificial light charms, too. They won’t get much sun.”

Neville gets enough sun that afternoon, but not nearly enough sleep that night, as he thinks of ways he might’ve worked a date into the conversation. Flirted, at least. Anything more seductive than, “You really can’t undervalue moly when it comes to counteracting enchantments” would probably have been ideal. 

And he completely forgot the biscuits. He could kick himself, but they’re better the second day, anyway. 

* * *

Thursday finds her praising his baking skills and his inspired demonstration of rosemary’s versatility. She’s glad he’s not too busy, because he must settle a bet for her. “Theo swears flutterby bushes flower once every other century. It’s nonsensical. I provided several sources that clearly state they flower _every_ century, but he’ll only accept your expertise in settling it.” 

Hermione’s hair is a brilliant mass of curls, which seem to vibrate with her righteous indignation this afternoon. They’re gorgeous in the filtered sunlight. She’s gorgeous. “Right. You’re right, of course. They flower once a century.”

She gets a satisfied, shrewd look in her eyes and gives him a smirk. “Thank you for the confirmation. Theo hates losing. The bet is work-related—I can’t say how, but he’s going to regret this.” 

Then she steps on her tiptoes and _kisses him on the cheek_ before hurrying out of the greenhouse. “You’re the best, Neville!” 

* * *

Hermione’s in a huff when she finds him on Friday morning. “If you wanted to really tell someone off, what flowers would you give them? In addition to yellow carnations, of course.”

Neville wonders how deeply someone wronged her to be deserving of yellow carnations. “What kind of feelings are you trying to express? Mint means ‘suspicion.’ Lobelia represents ‘malevolence.’ Tansy, if you’re really peeved—that says ‘I declare war on you.’"

“Hmm. Thank you, Neville.” She’s muttering about not even caring that tansy and lobelia will clash horribly as she stalks out of the greenhouse. The last thing he hears before the door clatters shut is: “All the _better_ if it’s visually unappealing.”

Every day this week, she’s come around. And he’s done little more than fall back on his comfortable command of herbology, providing professional advice. Everything they've discussed could have been covered by any other herbologist.

Neville is capable of carrying a conversation with a woman. He’s reasonably good at it, he thinks, and not just when it has to do with his field of study. Talking to Hermione has never even been an _issue_ until now. He doesn’t understand why he’s struggling so much, but he suspects it’s due to his inability to figure out his own next move. First move, really. He’s paralyzed by indecisiveness and his heartfelt, desperate desire to not fuck it up. 

If this week is anything to go on, chances are good that she’ll be back on Monday. Neville resolves to think hard over the weekend, come up with a really inspired, foolproof way to ask her out, and _practice_ so he’s ready for her.

* * *

She comes back later that afternoon. 

"Hi," she says. She leans a hip against the bench he’s working at and watches as Neville pours perlite into potting mix. He’s planned to divide and repot succulents that require excellent drainage. Right now he’s pleased to have something to do with his hands, because she’s flustered him again, showing up twice on the same day.

"Hello, Hermione."

"What's your favorite plant, Neville?"

Neville stops stirring, sinking his trowel into the soil and turning to face her. “My favorite plant?” He gestures to the overflowing pots on the workbench. “It’s actually always been these. Mimbulus mimbletonia. They were my first really unusual plant. They’re a bit prickly, but when they’re comfortable with you, they—well, they make a happy noise when they’re touched.”

"Would it be a good plant to give to someone you're interested in?"

Fuck. Neville bites the inside of his cheek as a distraction from the instant tightness in his chest. The window of opportunity has closed again. 

“Sure,” he says. “Let me just—”

He turns back to his bench, rolling his sleeves. A precise amount of soil is scooped into a perfectly-sized pot. This is fine. Neville can do this. Slow strokes between the spines of a mimbletonia make it shiver and coo. He can pot up a piece of his favorite plant to give to the witch he longs for, so she can give it to her new love interest. After carefully separating the plant at a natural division, Neville settles it at the ideal depth in the new pot, gently tamping soil to secure it in place. She is not his and she owes him nothing. A practiced Aguamenti conjures just the right amount of moisture for the newly divided plant. Neville will be supportive of her happiness.

“Here you are,” he says, sliding the pot in Hermione’s direction. “It should make a lovely gift. They’re quite rare. Best tell the recipient about the defense mechanism, though it’s less likely to occur when they’re mature and settled.” 

Neville is exhausted and he wants to be done for the day. All week long she’s been in and out, and he’d allowed himself to hope the frequent contact would inspire him to make the perfect overture, but now he’s just bone-weary from overthinking things and sore with disappointment in himself. Usually tending his plants is soothing, but all Neville wants to do is lie down in a dark room, out of sight from this lovely witch he’s never figured out how to properly pursue. 

Something about this feels so final. Like whoever she’s about to give that plant to is _it,_ the one for her, and Neville’s window is closing forever. 

“Well, good luck. I have to...” He gestures vaguely and starts to leave the greenhouse.

“Wait! Hold on, Neville.” 

Though his instinct is to escape, hide, and wallow in misery, he turns. Her lower lip is pulled between her teeth, an anxious expression on the face he has loved for so long and from such a short distance. Aching heart or not, he makes himself stay.

“It’s for you.”

She steps closer, and he’s so gobsmacked, she has to gently take his hand and curve it around the pot. Her hands linger on his, and her fingers are a cool contrast in the warmth of the greenhouse. “I should’ve gone about this differently. I think I had some bad advice. You weren’t meant to give your favorite plant to _me,_ I was going to—but of course, you would already have it.” She looks up at him and she’s so close, Neville thinks his pulse must be insanely unhealthy. 

“I like you, Neville. I have for a while now, to tell the truth, but I didn’t want to make things awkward or risk our friendship. I wasn’t sure if you were interested.”

“I asked you to the Yule Ball,” he says, stupidly.

“Oh.” The pressure of her fingertips against his increases momentarily. A gentle half-squeeze.

“That’s right, of course. But that was a long time ago, and I don’t expect that you’d still...” Her eyes scan his face, and he knows she can plainly see that it may as well have been yesterday, for all that his feelings have changed.

“Well, I wanted to say that you’re wonderful at what you do. I know how good you are with your students, and while I’m not sure I want children, it’s a very charming quality. As is your herbology mastery. I find depth of knowledge, particularly in areas that aren’t my strengths, very...desirable.” Neville feels his face heat. “You’ve always been kind and thoughtful—truly thoughtful, taking time to think through the implications of what you might say or do. That kind of consideration doesn’t draw attention to itself, but I want you to know that I see it. I’ve noticed.”

She eases away the newly-divided mimbletonia—the sole witness to the realization of his decade-long dream—and places it on the workbench. Her fingers find his again, and she threads them together. He receives a whole, full, and intentional squeeze. 

“There are many reasons I’m quite taken with you, Neville. Besides the physical, although that’s—well, I find you attractive in many ways.” Her cheeks pinken, but Neville feels like his own must be as red as poppies. “You have lovely eyes, and a beautiful jawline.” She untangles their fingers, and slides her hand up his bare wrist, smoothing her thumb across the soft skin on the underside of his arm. “And I have a peculiar weakness for your forearms.” 

She’s smiling, and Neville almost laughs at the absurdity of Hermione Granger fancying his _arms,_ for Merlin’s sake. He swallows it down, because he doesn’t want to embarrass or distract her.

She presses on, and here’s the crux of it: “It’s been brought to my attention that how I’m feeling about you might not be one-sided.”

Fucking Malfoy. 

Neville only realizes he’s said it out loud when her mouth falls open in surprise. 

“What? Oh, no. Theo. Theo said you looked like you...well, never mind what he said. Suffice it to say, his point was made. To be clear, although I am interested, I came to consult with you for your _opinions,_ which I value. You’re brilliant in your field, but I’d never pretend to be uneducated about something just to catch your attention. I hope you know that. Theo has _certainly_ been made aware.” 

Her eyes glint, and Neville’s sure Theo has a strongly-worded, visually unappealing bouquet somewhere.

“So, Neville. Can I tempt you with your favorite plant, and maybe take you to dinner?”

Neville only nods. Not because he has no words, but because he badly wants to kiss her and he knows he’s finally allowed to. He’s going to make sure, though. He tilts her chin, searching her eyes. 

“Please,” she whispers.

It’s not the greenhouse four fantasy that he hasn’t been able to shake lately. But it’s infinitely more satisfying, because it’s real. And her sweet, shuddery sigh—right after their first kiss, and right before she bites his bottom lip—well, it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For you, [ granger_danger! ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger) You are such a joy. 💚

By the time a greenhouse four fantasy actually comes to fruition, it’s been talked about  _ extensively. _ Hermione prides herself on thorough research, after all. 

The lengthy planning has been its own source of stimulation, and now that the day is here, Neville’s been anticipatorily hard for most of it. His whole body is positively thrumming with energy by the time he holds her hand and guides her into the greenhouse after dinner.

He’s not nervous, though. There’s been a delightful exploration of the many ways they fit together. This one is only occasional, but Hermione's thrill in relinquishing control meshes quite pleasurably with Neville’s desire to take complete, devoted care of her. 

There’s plentiful experience and solid, tested communication in place before they agree to explore outside of the bedroom. It’s not as spontaneous as it might be for some. But for Hermione and Neville, the buildup has heightened everything.

She's quiet, but her grip is sure as Neville guides her to the back corner of the moonlit greenhouse. He kisses her, deep and slow, before brushing his lips across her cheekbones, finally settling them against the soft spot behind her ear. "Still okay?" he asks against her skin. She nods, and he pulls back to tilt her chin and look in her eyes. They're dark in the moonlight, but he reads them easily: warm and eager. 

He steps back, leaning against a workbench. Hands in pockets, one ankle crossed over the other. He considers her, as though he needs time to decide what he wants her to do. Like he hasn’t been waiting for this all day.

“Take your clothes off.”

He watches for any sign of reluctance, but she just takes a deep breath before removing her clothing slowly, piece by piece. She folds it neatly, placing each item in a pile on an empty bench. He admires the curve of her arse and her wild, loose curls, shaking with her ragged breathing as she nudges her shoes under the bench. She turns to face him, nude, expression open and expectant, and he exhales sharply. “Fuck, Hermione. You are so,  _ so _ beautiful.” 

He helps her onto the sheet-covered, cushion-charmed workbench, securing her wrists and ankles snugly with a wave of his wand. “You look absolutely breathtaking, spread open for me like this.” 

It’s true. In a lifetime of fantasies, nothing has ever approached what lies before him. She is his religion, and he’s here to worship at the altar.

A scrape of teeth to her instep curls her toes. 

Soft presses of lips to each fingertip make her sigh sweetly.

Gentle, pinching rolls of her nipples draw sharp gasps of air. 

Licks of her neck end with teeth on her collarbone, evoking a whimper.

A sucking kiss to each inner elbow pulls forth delicious shudders. _ _

Several strokes of his tongue, through her drenched folds and across her clit, make her hips buck, and the vines she’s bound with pull taut as her legs shake. “Oh, yes.  _ Please, _ Neville.”

And then he chuckles. 

“I need to water the plants. Can you be good and stay put for me, love?”

She pants, lips parted, looking very much like she has something to say. But she hesitates, and only nods. 

“That’s my girl.” Neville leaves her, beautifully bare and chest heaving, on the workbench in the northeast corner of greenhouse four. 

He doesn’t plan on stepping away for long. Just long enough for her wet cunt to chill, even in the warmth of the greenhouse. 

And he doesn’t leave her  _ alone. _ That’s a limit for both of them, at least for now. He stays in the greenhouse. Neville navigates his usual path, watering and deadheading, absently grooming plants in obvious need of care. He has his eyes on her, but he also pays close attention to his ring. 

It’s half of a matched set, and Neville had Theo charm them with every protection and magical ability he could think of before offering Hermione hers. It’s a promise to, among other things, always take care of her. If it heats, he’ll drop everything.

The vines he’s spelled to hold her are not indestructible, and Hermione’s a fearsome witch. She could bring the entire greenhouse down around them if she wanted, probably wandlessly and non-verbally. But the ring requires only her thoughts to activate , and  that makes it as good as their safe word. 

Whether or not she  _ can _ free herself if she needs to is not the sole concern. No matter how safe, Neville will never participate in anything unless he knows she absolutely wants to experience it. He’s learned that it gives her a profound, heady sense of bliss to let go, to stop thinking and just do what he tells her, trusting that he’s going to make her feel good. And that trust and confidence from  _ her _ in  _ him _ fills Neville with a rush of intense, spine-tingling satisfaction, every single time they play like this. 

He plucks a single shriveled blossom from a lovingly-tended begonia. Neville imagines her goosebumps, a shiver going through her as his saliva cools on her bare skin. 

He’s done with the plants for the evening. He makes his way back to the witch he’s always wanted, experiencing a surreal strike of wonder that she’s folded him into her life like this. Those moments come often, and he thinks they’ll never stop. 

“You’ve been very patient, Hermione.” He strokes his thumb along the vine encircling one trembling wrist. “I’m going to release these, just long enough to bend you over this bench. I’ll put them back in place as soon as I have you the way I want you.” 

He bends to speak quietly in her ear. “Then I’m going to fuck your pretty cunt.” Her hair has fallen over the edge of the workbench, and it's soft as he pushes his fingers through it; a practice-perfected measure of grip. “But you can’t come until I do. If you’re very good, and you can last, then I’m going to get on my knees and lick you clean until you fall apart on my tongue.” Her eyes close, and in the moonlight, he can see her pulse fluttering. “Do you think you can do that, love?”

She starts to nod, but his hand is still fisted in her curls. He watches her swallow, licking lips that have dried from her panting breath. He’ll give her the calendula and hyssop balm he made when they’re done. “Gods,  _ yes. _ ”

Neville presses a lingering kiss to her temple. Merlin, he loves her so fucking much. “That’s my girl.”


End file.
